Beautiful
by SurelyForth
Summary: In a world that never was, Anders is one of the mages sent to Ostagar. He manages to meets up with a couple of Grey Wardens and he cannot fault their taste in companions. One shot for BSN.


**Note from SF:** This is a prompt fill that got out of hand, in a bad way. The gist is this: At some point before Origins, First Enchanter Irving had a really excellent day and decided to give Anders an opportunity to prove himself trustworthy. Anders got sent to Ostagar and, in the ensuing chaos, managed to dart through the cracks. He met a couple of Wardens in Lothering and the rest, as they say, was alternative history...

* * *

_She is so beautiful. _

Not the _most_ beautiful, of course. That would have been Amelia, an apprentice who'd been lost- or murdered, depending on one's perspective- during her Harrowing. Amelia had been petite and _golden_, even after 14 years in the tower, and she had a way of looking at a man that made him want to simultaneously defile and protect her.

Anders had, sadly, gotten the chance to do neither.

This woman was nothing like Amelia. She was slightly taller, definitely paler, and her golden eyes were flat and feral. If there was any defiling going on in her vicinity, it would be her own work.

It was her way to set up a tent on the outskirts of camp and keep to herself, busying her hands with making potions and poultices. Sometimes she would remove the bone pins that held her hair up and it would tumble around her face, the inky black in perfect contrast with her alabaster skin, and accent her exquisite jawline and full lips.

Then there was the business with her _robes_. She'd acted peeved when he told her that if the girls in the Tower had dressed like her, he would have never _dreamt _of leaving, but he was fairly certain he saw a faint gleam of appreciation in her eyes as they rolled upward.

Tonight her hair was down, and the light from the fire danced across her face and hands in a way that spoke of barbarian rituals and chanting at the moon.

_You are so beautiful._

"Why do you stare?" She glanced up, suspicion narrowing her eyes. The only person who could safely approach her once she'd settled into her spot was Brand. He, not being Brand, was on precarious ground here.

Fortunately for him, he had too little shame to really care that her lips curled with disdain as he settled onto the ground beside her, his legs stretched in front of him so his feet could warm by her fire.

"Why do I _stare_?" He tilted his head. "You can _not_ be serious with that question, can you?"

"I _can_ be," her voice was even icier than normal, Anders wouldn't have been surprised to see frost form on the air between them. "I know what charms I hold for you, fool mage, if that is the _point_ you are trying to make. You have hardly been discreet in the way you...stare at us."

"Well, now that we've gotten past the _awkward_ part," he wasn't going to let the cold weight of her words dissuade him from his plan of attack. "There's something I wanted to show you."

Without waiting for a response, although her brows did lower dangerously, he reached into his pack and emerged almost immediately with his offering.

"It's a rose," he explained this as if she hadn't grown up in the middle of the wilds raised by an ageless witch. Morrigan probably knew more about botany than any of the herbalists or gardeners in the Tower. Besides, who couldn't recognize a _rose_. "I think it's _almost_ as lovely as you are."

"Well, _that_ is lovely indeed," these words were softer, although it took several seconds for her eyebrows to lift and the scowl that twisted her lips to fade. "And where did you find said rose?"

He ran his finger along the velvety edge of one petal and smiled to himself as he remembered how this flower was the first thing he saw when Brand had removed the burlap sack from his head, her timely arrival the difference between his survival and his being thrown to the wolves by a handful of furious refugees who blamed him for putting a curse on Lothering, dooming it and its inhabitants to endless misery.

_As if I wasn't just as miserable._

That it was still as full and healthy as it had been on that day, even after months in his pack, was its own kind of magic.

"Lothering, where I was found behind the Chantry," Anders pressed the flower into her hand and withdrew his own. "I want you to have it."

Morrigan regarded the gift and it was _impossible_ to read her.

"And, if it's not too much," Anders leaned in as close as he dared, which wasn't close at all. He had no shame, but he also rather enjoyed _living_. "I couldn't help but overhear you tell Sten that your tent was cold? I can help with that, you know."

"I see…you would use your magic, I assume," she shifted, her gaze remaining on the flower. In uncertain firelight, it was hard to distinguish the nuances of expression from the simple interplay of shadow and flickering flame, but he swore her lips were tugging up into a smile. "Or did you have another method in mind for how one might go about keeping a tent warm?"

"I have _so_ many methods," the words flew out of his mouth with a mortifying amount of enthusiasm. "Ok, maybe just two. But they're _really_ good."

"I see," for the first time since he'd handed her the rose, her eyes met his and had he not been sitting next to a fire he may have turned into a solid block of ice. "Perhaps you saw something in the Tower of Magi that reminded of your days when you were surrounded by stupid little girls who would fall for _this_…"

She tossed the flower into his lap.

"I need neither your token of _affection_ nor your hamfisted attempts to woo me," she shook her head. "I am not desperate."

Anders had already thrown the rose back into his pack, less angry at her rejection than he was annoyed by her _hypocrisy_.

"Oh, and I guess when you bat your eyelashes, pout, and complain to Sten that _tis cold in your tent_, it's the very _height_ of romantic sophistication?" Anders found his feet and Morrigan appeared nothing if not relieved.

"Tis a game I play, and nothing more," her tone was arch and she turned back to the fire. "While you may possess some limited charms for some _limited_ women, you have no patience for pursuit. It speaks ill of your patience for…_other_ preliminary activities."

_Did she just imply that…_

"Move along, mage," there was no room for interpretation there. "Perhaps the bard is simple enough to be impressed by your _charm_."

_You are so _mean_._

* * *

Leliana was by the fire as she always was after dinner, her lute propped in her lap while she plucked its strings with practiced fingers _and I would not mind having them practice on me_. The Orlesian ballad that she was singing was, as far as he could tell with his limited grasp of Orlesian, about two women who were competing for the same man, only to fall in love with each other.

_That is _not_ a good sign._

He watched her for several minutes, allowing the sound of her strong, clear voice to relax him a bit. He'd never been one to dwell on his mistakes or failures, choosing instead to see anything that he got out of alive as _success_. But Morrigan's words had stung. _A little_. He thought back to the Tower, and how Brand had tried to talk him out of going in with them. He should have _listened _to her instead of smarting off about how she was really afraid that having him along, stealing kills, might diminish her body count.

The Tower had been a _nightmare_ and, even now, he had to work hard to keep from being overwhelmed by the memories of the ruined lives of people he'd known, even if they were known in a place he hated. Standing in his old chambers, waste and human remains splattered across the wall above where he'd slept not five months earlier, he'd have done anything to have been in that very spot when the splattering had happened. Maybe he could have helped, maybe…

_No _maybes_. What you're doing now is more important, even if it is depressing as all get out most of the time._

"Anders?" Leliana had finished her song and her expression was curious as she regarded him over the fire. "You look as if you ate something _very _unpleasant. Surely my music did not offend you?"

Anders shook his head, forcing a smirk to touch his lips. The last thing he wanted was for the others, most of whom were positioned nearby but focused on their own pre-sleep routines, to notice that he'd been out of sorts since they'd left the Tower a few days earlier.

"Quite the opposite, in fact," he moved to take a place beside her, noticing that she did not regard him with Morrigan's suspicion. Instead, she pressed her knees together and smiled prettily. "I think you have the prettiest voice I have ever had the pleasure of hearing, and your accent…" he thought of Morrigan's dismissal of his flirting technique. "You're accent is very _alluring_."

"In Orlais, I would be ridiculed for my accent," she wrapped her arms around her knees. "My years in Ferelden have caused my accent to become…_inauthentic_. Some noblewomen would even call my speech barbaric."

Anders stared for a moment, wondering if he's just been insulted. Then he allowed his eyes to move past her lovely features, down her neck and to the low neckline of her tunic. _Who cares if she insulted me? She's so beautiful, and definitely not as mean as Morrigan. _That_ has to be worth something._

"I find quite the opposite. Perhaps I could convince you to perform another song? I'm desperately broke, but I can offer you this," he withdrew the rose from his pack and offered it with a flourish.

Her reaction was…borderline _impolite_. Even Sten, who rarely allowed the events happening outside of his own meditations to move him, glanced over to see what had caused the moan-shriek that had forced its way out of the bard.

"Where did you find that?" One hand was covering her mouth and Anders could honestly not tell if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

"Lothering, where I was found behind the Chantry," Anders attempted to give her the flower, but she pulled away as if his hands were coated in darkspawn blood. "I take it that there's a problem."

"Oh," her hands were now folded over her heart and her cornflower blue eyes shone with tears. "That was the Maker's rose…the rose that encouraged me to leave the Chantry, the rose that led me to Brand."

_She is so crazy._

"Maker's…rose?" He dropped it back into his bag. "I'm afraid that I don't follow."

He wasn't actually _afraid_ at all, or upset. To be honest, the fact that he didn't follow was perfectly fine with him.

"I…oh," her cheeks turned quite red. "You will only think I am foolish, and perhaps crazy, were I to tell you."

"To be fair, I've never been encouraged by a rose," he shifted away from her, any notion of impressing the bard gone. "The plants in the Tower were all fairly taciturn."

Leliana frowned and for a moment he felt bad that his words came out so mocking, but what did she expect?

A Maker rose? Really?

After a few long moments of awkward silence, Anders gathered his bag and moved to the far side of the fire, where Alistair was inspecting his armor.

"I love women, but sometimes I just want to…not love them," he crouched down beside the other man.

"I wouldn't know about that," Alistair didn't look up from his work. While they weren't _best _friends, they were far more companionable than an apostate and an ex-almost-templar had any right to be. "I've had less than a year of thinking women were a possibility, not a lot of time to give up on half of the population. Although Morrigan has her moments of mean. And Leliana is…"

"Crazy?" Anders brushed aside a small swell of guilt. "And Brand is terrifying."

This got Alistair's attention.

"You think she's _terrifying_?" His forehead wrinkled in amusement. "Then your night is probably not going to get any better. Or have you forgotten that you're on first watch?"

"Ooooh," Anders' wail was melodramatic, but not entirely an exaggeration. "And the hits keep coming. What's next? Will I wake up tomorrow covered in boils? Hairless? Back at the Tower?"

"And people say _I'm_ whiny," this was punctuated with a chuckle. "It was bound to happen sometime. It's not the end of the world, you know."

Anders almost offered Alistair a chance to take his place, but then he realized that would be completely rude.

"Fine, fine," the mage scanned the edges of camp until he saw a figure in the distance, the campfire light reaching just far enough to distinguished the other Warden's form from the darkness beyond her. "As long as I don't startle her, I should come out of this night _physically _unscathed."

Brand was sitting with her back to their collection of tents, a small log pressed to her lower back for support and her long, scale armored legs stretched out in front of her. She'd been cleaning her weapons before he arrived and the blades, one ancestral sword and two steel daggers, were propped against a nearby tree and well out of her reach.

"I could be a genlock coming to attack, and you'd have no time to ready yourself for battle," Anders dropped to the ground beside her with a loud _oof_ and immediately mirrored her posture. "Fortunately for you, I'm not."

"You think I don't know how to fight without weapons?" She was scribbling in a deerskin journal, the page illegible in the dark. "Aren't mages taught to cast without staves?"

"Of course," he positioned his own stave in between them, encouraging the tip to glow just enough so that she could see to write. The light, although dim, was pure and it threw her face into sharp relief, the contours of her profile as defined as if they'd been cut out of white cloth and pinned against a backdrop. While she was far from ugly, her features were too large and her face too long, her cheeks hallowed out and shadowed. Her hair was thick and a rich shade of dark auburn, but she wore it much like Morrigan's, pinned back from her face, and she rarely allowed it down to soften her sharp cheekbones.

"You're staring," this was not a trap, but a statement.

"Not much else to do," his gaze flickered down to her hand as it flew across parchment, her long fingers pale and stained at the tips with ink. Despite their delicate shape, there was no mistaking that they were the hands of someone who killed and did it well. Not even Alistair had as many battlescars across his knuckles and the back of his hand. Of course, Alistair had a personality outside of his strength. Brand was all sinew and bloodlust and, when not in battle, she seemed little more than a somnambulist who could occasionally ask the right questions and give correct answers in return. "It's just one of those nights, I suppose."

"Because camp is usually _incredibly_ exciting?" One dark eyebrow went up and she looked at him from the corner of her eye. Then, as if they'd built up to it at all, "How are you feeling?"

"_What_?"

"How are you…" Her jaw clenched in frustration. "Are you all right? I know that it's hard to see your home…the Tower was a mess, and it must have been difficult for you."

"It was," he kept his voice neutral, although his interest had grown a bit. She'd slipped a little in her fumbling to express concern; he was wondering if he should press or let it go. "Both a mess and difficult. I had friends there, or what I would consider friends. They may not have been too attached to me, considering my tendency to disappear, but they deserved better than to get caught like _that_."

"They deserved better _period_," her forehead furrowed. "I can't believe that the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander don't do more to…Oh, I don't know. And I'm certain you don't want to hear me talk about politics I don't understand."

He did, actually, if only because there was a surprising amount of passion in her voice. "I didn't think anything could excite you that much. Outside of decapitating a hurlock."

"Yeah," eyes darkening, her expression closed down. Anders hadn't even realized how animated her face had been when they were talking about the mages. "I'm terrifying."

_Ouch._

"You heard," the cringe was clear in his voice.

"I did," she looked over and she didn't appear angry, only distantly sad and a little nostalgic. "And you're right."

_You are such an asshole sometimes, Anders. But…_

"A peace offering?" He'd withdrawn the rose from his pack so quickly that it probably seemed as of he'd conjured it from the air.

"Is that…from _Lothering_?" Incredulity widened her eyes. "_That _seems unlikely."

"Yeah, I found it behind the Chantry. It was the first thing I saw after you took that bloody sack off of my head," he tilted his hand towards her so she could pluck it from between his fingers. "It seemed like the thing to do."

He didn't think she was listening anymore, her focus on the flower and whatever she'd been feeling seconds before- sorrow, hurt, embarrassment- had disappeared and left behind bemused appreciation that did amazing things to that awkward face of hers.

_She looks almost happy._ Before he remembered the path the rose had taken that evening, he was almost proud of himself. Then he thought of Morrigan throwing it back at him, and Leliana horrified at his blasphemy. _You are _still_ an asshole._

"That's fairly miraculous," she lifted the flower to her nose and inhaled appreciatively. "My favorite perfume was rose scented. I have no idea how this doesn't smell like mildew and your herbal components."

"Magic?" It was a lame response, but he was trying to imagine some version of Brand that was frivolous enough to have a _favorite_ perfume and failing.

"Well, their loss," she breathed in the scent one last time before she carefully laid the rose to rest on top of her journal.

"Wait…you know _that_, too?" Anders head fell back and his eyes closed. _Maker, this night_. When he joined their crew, he'd been excited at the prospect of having two of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen as constant companions. Now the group of them seemed _years_ away from succeeding in their task and he'd already blown it with both of them _and_ the only other woman he was likely to see on a semi-regular basis. "Fuck _me_."

"A lot to ask for a recycled rose," this was said with, of all things, a completely unforced laugh and Anders was upright in seconds, his eyes snapping open and his cheeks burning so fiercely that he was tempted to cut the light from his staff. "A gold necklace, or a bottle of perfume, _maybe_. But a rose? That's just insulting."

The woman beside him wasn't the same one he'd settled next to minutes before. This woman was smiling and everything about her face was…new. Softer, brighter. He had been under the assumption that she was only really alive when she was slicing through darkspawn and bandits with her swords. Thus, _terrifying_. But now he was seeing someone completely different, someone vibrant and good-humored enough to be wholly amused at coming in third place for his unsolicited affections.

"You are…" he watched her for several seconds as she tried to compose herself. _Pretty_, he wanted to say, surprise ringing in his voice. "You can certainly take an insult."

"Only because it is so fun to imagine your face when Morrigan rejected you," Brand cocked one eyebrow. "How many times did she call you a fool?"

Anders attempted a scowl, but all he could do was smirk.

"Oh, only about twice as many times as a normal conversation with Morrigan," he snorted. "So I'm more foolish than Leliana, but less so than Alistair."

"And Leliana freaked out about her Maker rose?"

"Are you implying that I should have come for you for advice on how to woo women?"

"_These _women," Brand touched the rose again, the corner of her mouth curving upward. "Or maybe you should have just started with me in the first place."

He followed her progress as she ran her fingertips along the edges of the petals, the gesture deliberate and gentle in a way he'd never dreamt she could be.

"I'll try to remember that the next time I come across something gifty," he hesitated before saying more, concerns about being on top of his game disappearing as he realized that he was in a place where he could safely fail. "Who knows, I could have a really excellent day and find a gold necklace or a bottle of perfume."

"I said _maybe_," the words sang with her laughter.

And it was so beautiful.


End file.
